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He loaded the rest, found himself nearly out of breath with the effort, the heat. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle of Coke he’d bought in the mart, and brought it with him as he got behind the wheel.
Another good glug and he nearly choked on it as his breath caught.
As he started the engine, he glanced in the rearview mirror.
He lost his breath again, and in the heat still baking the cab, went ice-cold.
He saw them, just walking out of a diner-type place, the place where he’d have had breakfast if he hadn’t been too hungry to wait.
But it couldn’t be. A mirage, a trick of the light. He rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses, but they remained—and moving his way.
The fucking feds. Those assholes, Beck and Morrison. Right here, walking down the planked sidewalk.
Panic had his ears ringing, his eyes watering as he hit the gas.
He beat his hand on the wheel as he drove. How? How? How?
The truck rattled and shook as he pushed it as fast as it could go. Because they were right behind him. Right behind him.
He had to get back, fast, to Dead Jane’s place. He’d broken his new rule and left clothes, equipment, cash—too much to lose again. He’d broken the rule because they shouldn’t be here.
Why had they come here?
When he reached the gate, leaped out, his legs nearly gave way under him. Fear had him sweat-soaked, shaky so his fingers fumbled with the padlock keys.
But he got the gate open, drove through, and gathered himself to lock it behind him again. Just in case.
He tore down the drive, struggling to clear his mind enough to think, just think. He’d take the old woman’s truck. A beater, but a better beater than this one. And maybe, somehow, they’d tracked what he’d been using.
He’d locked the cabin—safety first—so had to deal with those locks. Inside, he ripped through, shoving laundry he hadn’t done with laundry he had. His own breath sounded like a windstorm as he gathered up his equipment, disconnected some of hers to take.
The money, the money, the money, the IDs he’d completed.
The guns, the ammo, the knives—including the one the dead bitch had stabbed him with.
Chickens clucked and clacked as he ran to the shed, dragged the door open. He tossed tools into the bed of the truck, the clanging echoing as he threw in his bolt cutters, a pickax, a hatchet, a hammer.
Dust flew as he drove to the shack, tossed bags, suitcases, briefcases into the bed. He forced himself to take more care with the equipment, stuck the handgun under the driver’s seat. The rifle and shotgun went in the gun rack.
Let them come. He’d shoot them to pieces.
He needed water, food.
When he remembered all the food he’d bought, rage leaped into the fear.
He ripped open the door to the other truck, dragged out frozen dinners, frozen pizza, milk jugs, heaving them into the dirt. Time and money wasted, wasted.
As he raged, he screamed. As he screamed, something already cracked broke inside him.
He stood, looking around him at milk glugging onto the ground, at the dented boxes of potpies and fried chicken and gravy, the Dove Bars and extra-sharp cheddar.
And began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh so hard tears ran downhis cheeks. He chuckled to himself as he transferred the other groceries, the liquor, the towels, from one truck to another.
Fuck it, fuck this shit, he wasdonewith it. Time to close the books. Time for a reckoning. Time for a bitch to pay the goddamn piper.
“The time’s come, the walrus said,” he muttered as he bungee-corded one of Jane’s tarps over the bed of the truck.
He started to get into the truck, then decided what the hell. Walking over, he ripped open the box of Dove Bars, yanked one out, tore off the wrapper.
